Defining Family
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Cop!verse AU. Blood relation isn't always the most accurate barometer when defining family members. Sometimes, "family" are the people that everyone loves, but wants to shoot at the same time.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Defining Family

**Author**: Gixxer Pilot

**Summary**: Cop!verse AU. Blood relation isn't always the most accurate barometer when defining family members. Sometimes, "family" are the people that everyone loves, but wants to shoot at the same time.

**Author's Notes**: *cringes* I have been sitting on this completed story for over a year now with no good reasoning as to why. I kept telling myself that I needed to get off my ass and post it, but never did. Sorry, guys. Anyway, point the first: this story takes place a couple of years after Accidentally on Purpose. Point the second: even though I haven't formally introduced them yet, Chekov is BFFs with Chris's teenage son Ethan, and Scotty is the chief (and only) mechanic for the Iowa City PD. Finally, Kilala10 over at Livejournal drew some spectacular art to go with this story (OMG, THANK YOU – YOU'RE SO AWESOME!). A link to the win will be posted with the appropriate chapter. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I wish I owned Star Trek. But, since I don't and make no monetary profit from anything I write, I want to make it clear that I have no legal claim to anything Trek. Just sayin'.

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**Chapter 1**

When he was physically able, McCoy made a mental note to give Jim Kirk the most epic ass whooping of his entire life, up to the point that the kid wouldn't be able to sit for a week. The indignity of his current dilemma demanded nothing less.

Hindsight being twenty-twenty, he knew he shouldn't have opened the door when he saw Kirk's face on the other side of the peep hole. McCoy cursed his own damned stupidity for not thinking it through before he unbolted the lock to talk to his infant partner. He'd gotten only, "Jim, there are these things called phones," out of his mouth before the kid rushed him, throwing him on the ground of the apartment with a resounding 'thud'. It took the sergeant by surprise, as did the ease at which Jim was able to put his stronger, bulkier and much heavier partner none-too-gently on the ground and in a fully restrained position.

Before he could mutter one well-formed insult, McCoy was face down, nose buried in the carpet of his living room. The knee that Jim was rudely grinding into his spine was uncomfortable, but the twinge in his shoulders from how Kirk was holding his hands behind his back was more painful that he cared to admit aloud. The sergeant felt Jim's grip tighten on his fingers, bending his hands up in the general direction of his head. It put more pressure on his wrists and shoulders, and the increased pain shooting through the lower half of arms definitely decreased his zeal to fight back. Kirk's weight shifted as he reached for something, and, blinking in shock, McCoy heard the telltale rattle of a set of handcuffs being pulled from their pouch.

Well, this was certainly odd. McCoy never realized just how cold handcuffs were when they were being applied _on_ him instead of _by_ him. The metal was heavy; the double bar style Smith and Wesson hinged cuffs both Kirk and Pike preferred felt like lead weights on his wrists and the sharp edges dug uncomfortably into the soft, sensitive recesses of his joints. He flinched when the cold bars hit his skin, feeling the tingle of the pressure point through his hands when Jim slapped the bracelets over his watch. Bones shook off the shock and bucked under Jim's weight in a futile effort to dislodge his partner. "Goddammit, Jim. This isn't funny! Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Kirk clicked the restraints down to the point he knew McCoy wouldn't be able to slip them, feeling almost sorry for his partner when the sergeant winced. "I'm under order, Bones. Sorry man."

"Orders? Who the hell from?" McCoy growled when Jim helped him sit up. His eyes widened when he saw the third person standing in his doorway, iPhone up at the ready and clearly recording. He groaned and put his face back down on the carpet, which earned a laugh from Kirk. For God's sake, he really must have pissed someone off in a former life to be forced to endure this kind of torture from people that were supposedly his friends. Maybe if he wished harder, the floor would just open up and swallow him whole. That would actually be preferable.

Over Kirk's left shoulder, a triumphant Scotty waved a friendly hello. "From our fearless CO, that's who," the mechanic said from behind his phone. "We are under orders from Lieutenant Pike to, 'Either get our sorry asses back to his house with you, or to not come back at all.' His words, not mine. But it was Jim's idea to handcuff you," Scotty backpedaled quickly, pointing frantically with one finger towards Jim when McCoy picked his head up off the floor and sent a laser of a stare in his general direction.

Nonplussed about being blamed yet again for another brilliant plan gone wrong, Jim stepped back and allowed McCoy to squirm around enough to get to his knees. "Scotty, I'd say he looks pissed," Kirk said in a dramatic whisper over his shoulder. On the floor, Kirk watched while Bones struggled to get to his feet without assistance, a proposition the sergeant was finding rather lofty. Jim smirked triumphantly when his partner, finally conceding defeat in the battle against gravity, toppled back to the carpet with a curse.

Equally amused, Scotty kept recording. He held up one hand and said, "Oh, aye. I think that's a fine point you have there, Mr. Kirk."

On the floor, McCoy most definitely resembled a terribly uncoordinated pile of limbs and elbows instead of a highly training, vastly experienced and athletic Iowa City Police sergeant. One leg tucked under his butt from his previous fall, the other was stretched out in front of him. He was still listing dangerously to port, and it was only the side of the couch that kept him from tumbling over completely. Huffing, McCoy glared at Scotty, who actually looked a little bit contrite. Kirk, on the other hand, was practically oozing giddy satisfaction. It was an expression the more experienced cop wanted desperately to wipe off his smug partner's face, preferably with his fist.

Kirk could see the simmering pot of emotions roiling through the older man by the telltale quiver of his partner's lower lip. Unable to control his glee, Jim rubbed his hands together and asked, "Problems, Sergeant?"

"No, Jim. I'm perfectly fine," Bones started in his trademark sarcastic fashion, working his way up into a proper pissed-off rage. Predictably, the vein in his neck jumped out from under the skin and his face took on a slightly red tinge. His right eyebrow jumped three solid notches, and his eyes bulged almost maniacally. McCoy's shoulders flicked as if he was about to try and cross his arms over his chest, but the presence of the restraints prohibited him from completing the motion. "I really enjoy being ambushed in my own home, tackled, handcuffed and told I'm about to be dragged to my CO's house for God only knows why."

"Bones, when you say it like that, you make it sound so barbaric," Jim replied, all but laughing in his partner's face despite the scowl practically imprinted on his features.

"And you." McCoy turned his withering glare toward Scotty. As his partner, Kirk might be immune to his angry stares and had managed to develop an ability to ignore his rants, but he knew the mechanic wasn't quite so fortunate. Straightening up as much as a man handcuffed and on his knees could (God that even sounded dirty in _his_ head, never mind what Kirk would have thought), the sergeant growled, "If that video turns up on YouTube, so help me Scotty, I will kick your ass all the way back across the pond to that ridiculous island you claim to call home."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, McCoy. I would never do such a terrible thing to a friend," Scotty lied cheerfully while he tapped away at a couple of buttons on his phone surreptitiously. His intent was to save and upload his video directly to the video sharing site, but his finger hovered over the 'post' button before deciding on 'cancel' instead. The night was young; the chances were high that, before he took his leave, something else spectacular would happen that would warrant YouTubeabe. It would be a pity to waste his golden opportunity on a less than golden moment, or so the Scotsman thought.

Jim clapped his hands together, face alight with entirely too much glee. He took a couple of steps toward his partner, grabbed the man by the bicep and gave him a solid tug. "Now, upsidaisy. Time to go see Pike, Bones."

McCoy shirked back, dug his heels into the floor and attempted to make himself as heavy as possible in his partner's grip. "I wasn't kidding, Jim. If you think I'm going with you to Pike's, you're even thicker than that hockey stick I hit you with last week. I am perfectly content right here, watching the Falcons in my own living roof. It's my day off, and I want to spend it doing absolutely nothing."

Kirk let out something that sounded auspiciously like a giggle while he looked McCoy up and down. "I can see that, Bones," he replied noncommittally. "But it's also your birthday, and we've decided that you're not allowed to spend it all by yourself. There's a rule against that. There's also a rule against your mustache, but that's another matter entirely. Seriously, man. You just look cheesy." Jim cocked his head to the side, extended his hand up and, in a motion only he had the balls to actually try, patted gently at the facial hair adorning the sergeant's upper lip in a vain effort to shape it.

If he were anyone else, McCoy probably would have killed Jim where he stood. Well, if Jim were anyone else, _and_ if his hands were free. But, because Kirk was his annoying but lovable partner, he settled on a simple, "For fuck's sake, Jim," instead. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to corral the jungle, man. You look like you're trying to impersonate Tom Selleck with the size of that thing, and you're not doing a very good job," Kirk replied, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "It's still a little poofy, I think."

"Touch my face again, and I swear I will eviscerate you," McCoy said, shooting Jim a death glare. Bones ducked his head out of the way of Jim's wandering hands and cursed Pike blue for the thousandth time that month. He was never, _ever_ going to play pool with the man again, especially when the loss of said pool match meant mandatory participation in 'Movember' as payment. Though McCoy would never go back on his word, his ingrained sense of integrity said nothing about taking the loss with a smile. The sergeant complained vehemently but resigned himself to his fate, one that included looking positively ridiculous for thirty agonizing calendar days.

Kirk shrugged and walked around to McCoy's side. As if he were leading out a suspect from a crime scene (which he was, sort of), Jim placed one hand firmly on the sergeant's bicep and gently urged the man forward. Scotty came around to the other side to flank the pair. He finally pocketed his iPhone, much to McCoy's relief. Kirk tugged his partner toward the door and asked, "Ready to go Bones?"

"No."

"Well, that's really too bad, because we're going anyway." Kirk clapped his partner on the shoulder and turned to face him. His entire body hummed with amusement; it wasn't every day Kirk got to arrest his superior officer and partner on the orders of his boss' boss, and he was taking every advantage of the situation. Scotty, and his affinity for his phone's video camera and the internet, _might_ have a been a little bit of overkill, but when the mechanic showed up at Pike's, Jim could hardly say no to the extra set of hands.

"I don't suppose I get a say in this," Bones asked while Scotty fetched a jacket from the closet and laid it over McCoy's shoulders. A pair of shoes appeared magically in front of him for use. Sighing against the futility that had somehow become his life, the sergeant reluctantly slipped his feet into his worn, comfortable pair of Puma low-cut sneakers and met Scotty's happy whistling with a well-executed roll of his eyes.

"Nope. Your say was overruled when you didn't come to Pike's earlier today. This could have all been avoided if you weren't so anti-social." With his eyes twinkling and half-smirk on his lips, Kirk said to McCoy in the gravest voice he could muster, "Leonard McCoy, you are under arrest for having absolutely no sense of fun, for failing to show up at your own birthday party, and most seriously, for trying to hide from your partner who was looking for you to drag you _to_ said birthday party. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of Lieutenant Pike."

Bones grumbled something inaudible under his breath. Kirk grabbed McCoy's keys off the small table next to the door, led the trio into the hallway, turned around and locked the door. Tossing the key set to Scotty, Kirk navigated the hallway and stairs down to Scotty's M5 in the parking lot. McCoy tried his best to ignore the pointed stares he was getting from his neighbors, for no doubt this would be the talk of the complex for the next week. The only saving grace for Kirk and Scotty's lives was that all his neighbors knew the two men well, and knew they were colleagues. They also knew what kind of person and police officer McCoy was, so at least being led out in handcuffs didn't garner a reaction more significant than a few raised eyebrows and a lot of throaty chuckles.

Scotty trotted ahead and unlocked the doors to his car. He really needed to fix the keyless entry one of these days. Or, he needed to _not_ run the damned thing over with the lawnmower. He shoved the key into the driver's door lock and turned it twice, popping his open to wait for Kirk and McCoy. He set his arms on the roof of the car and squinted against the glare of the sun. Jim's hand was on the door handle of the backseat of the car when Scotty asked, "He really hit you with a hockey stick?"

Kirk waved dismissively. "Relax, Scotty. It was already broken when it happened, so it wasn't a big deal at all."

"Bullshit," McCoy interrupted. "I cracked the damn thing over your head."

"_After_ I'd already broken it! Bones, don't claim all the credit for smashing that stick in half over my head. You're not that awesome." Kirk turned to face McCoy, who had done the same. Both men were leaning against Scotty's car, arguing as if nothing was amiss between the two of them. The only difference was that McCoy's normally animated, gesticulating hands were still, but he seemed to be using his mouth quite well to make up for it.

The mechanic's jaw fell open with a creak, emulating the door he still needed to fix on Jim and Bones' cruiser. Scotty's brain processed the fact that there was an argument taking place in front of him, but the words were coming out like a giant foghorn. He knew Jim and McCoy had a penchant for arguing, but physical assault was nearing the level of ridiculous. No wonder Pike was going grey as the pair's unofficial referee. Scotty replayed the words he did understand in his mind and pressed his fingertips to his forehead. To McCoy, he said, "Wait, wait, wait. You hit him over the head? What would you do a thing like that for? You could have hurt him, mate!"

McCoy scoffed loudly. "How could I hurt him, Scotty? Look at him! He's a reformed juvenile delinquent. Any damage done was a preexisting condition, not my fault. Besides, he was wearing a helmet."

"Oh, and that's a valid excuse now?" Scotty replied. "I'd love to see you pull those with the Lieutenant."

"Valid enough for that one," McCoy said with a jerk of his head in Jim's direction. "After all the shit he's put us both through in the last two years, I'm sure Pike would back me up."

"Which part, Bones?" Kirk asked.

"Both," McCoy growled in response. "You're the damned fool who heckled me the entire game, and then deflected a shot right at my head. As far as I'm concerned, you deserved it, idiot."

Scotty scratched his head and dropped in the driver's seat. "Actually, I'm not sure which one of you lot looks like the bigger idiot right about now."

Two heads snapped in the mechanic's direction, but before McCoy could say anything, Kirk recovered and shoved his partner through the open door and into the backseat of Scotty's car. He slammed the door hard in Bones' face, ignoring the stream of protest that started flowing from the man's mouth. Kirk grabbed his sunglasses from his pocket and slapped them on his face before he opened the door and slid easily into the buttery leather seat. He craned his neck around and stuck one index finger into McCoy's face as a warning. "Bitch all you want Bones, but we're going. I didn't risk death or great bodily injury for nothing, so just deal with it. Chris wants you at his place because he doesn't want you spending your birthday sitting alone in your apartment. And besides, I hear Lynn has a surprise for you, so just humor us and take it like a man."

"Aye," Scotty said. He started the engine for the car, put the clutch in and dropped the car into reverse. Backing out, he added, "From what I understand, it's a grand surprise. Frankly, I'm rather excited to see it."

"Me, too," Jim replied with a nod of his head while Scotty pulled out into traffic, heading west back to Pike's place. "What about you, Bones?"

McCoy sunk deeper into the seat of the car. The pain of the handcuffs on his wrists was nothing compared to the agony of well-meaning friends. He swore in his head, silently counted backwards from ten, and when that didn't work, let out a 'woo-sahh' in a vain attempt to calm himself down. Audibly, he settled on a simply muttered, "Fucking A," before blocking out every attempt at communication for the duration of the ride.

Right then and there, McCoy decided that mission was to get through the day without making a total ass of himself in front of his CO and friend, and more importantly, his CO's wife. It wouldn't kill him to be a little social, and there was a niggling part of his brain that was curious as to what Lynn Pike had planned. The woman was a basketful of surprises, and Len knew she wouldn't disappoint. After all, she'd practically adopted him. Resigned to make the best of an annoying situation, he set his jaw and prepared to face the music from a very irritated Chris Pike.

But on Monday, Jim Kirk was going to _die._

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**Next Up**: Chris and Lynn burn their son's eyes with PDAs, and the birthday boy arrives at Casa de Pike.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: I hesitated posting this chapter, at least the very first part of it. I've repeatedly said I'm not an angst or hurt/comfort writer, nor do I really feel like I'm capable of writing romance. But in order to get the humor for the payoff of the middle of this chapter, I had to at least attempt it. I rolled with it because it seemed very Pike to me and it worked with the fic. I hope it's not too cheesy and drenched in fail sauce. But if it is, well, I just chalk it up to a learning experience and move on.

To the pair of anonymous reviewers – thank you so much for your kind (and wonderfully thoughtful) reviews! I really wish I could have messaged you my thanks for them because they deserve a much better response than I feel is appropriate to give publicly. Just know you have my gratitude. For everyone else, I'm so glad there's actually a person reading this fic (and indeed this 'verse), and that you like it! I certainly have a blast putting these all together. Enjoy chapter 2!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. No money made. Please don't sue. That is all.

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**Chapter 2**

Chris Pike checked his watch.

Exactly thirty-seven seconds later, he checked it again.

And forty-nine seconds after that, he checked it one more time, just for good measure.

"Chris, don't you have anything better to do than sit there and stare at your watch?" Lynnette Pike asked from across the kitchen. While she was putting the finishing touches on McCoy's surprise birthday present, she'd been sneaking little glimpses at her husband's anxious, worried face. "They're going to be here. Don't worry."

Pike ran a hand over his face, not willing to admit that his wife's voice made him jump. Calmly, he replied, "I'm not worried, Lynn."

Lynn stood, metal cake decorating spatula in hand, with her fist propped up on her apron-clad hip. "Bullshit," she said, fixing him with a pointed stare.

Chris had the good grace to duck his chin. It still amazed him, even after more than twenty years of marriage, that she could put him in his place with one withering gaze. It was one of the many reasons he loved her - she kept him grounded and focused, and Pike, especially the younger version, needed that. Sighing deeply, he said, "Yeah, you're right. Like always," he added with a little shot of self-deprecating sarcasm.

She scoffed, focusing her attention on placing some of the small fondant props she'd made for her surprise. Lynn gently poked one of the decorations into place with a chop stick, nodding satisfactorily. "You have no reason to be concerned. Think about it: you told Kirk to, and I quote, 'Cuff McCoy and drag his sorry ass here if necessary,' and I can't imagine Jim wouldn't have taken that order literally. How often is he going to be able to arrest his partner, at your request? This is probably going to be the highlight of his year, and you know it."

A snort escaped the lieutenant's mouth, nodding to the truth in his wife's words. "The highlight of his life is more like it. What I wouldn't have given to be a fly on the wall for that moment," he muttered, knowing full well what his order likely came to.

"Oh, you sent Scotty along with Jim. I'm sure he recorded it. You know how that man is the master of the video camera," she said, dabbing a little bit of extra fudge on the support beam of her project. Lynn turned on the water and washed her hands, picked up her oversized cake and moved it over to the kitchen table in front of her husband. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, cocking her head to the side and analyzing her masterpiece with the critical eye of a perfectionist. "What do you think, Chris?"

At the table, Pike's face broke out into a broad, pleased smile. "Lynn, it's _perfect_." He stood up and leaned on the table, wanting a closer look at the most hilarious birthday cake he'd ever seen. "An Angry Birds themed cake. Where did you get this idea anyway?"

"From our son," she replied. "He said he saw a video on YouTube of an Angry Birds cake that someone in Europe made, and I took up his dare to do better."

"Ethan showed me that video, too. That cake was damned good, but I agree – yours is better," Pike said, putting one knee up on the chair he left pushed out from the table. His nose hovered an inch above one of the chocolate wafer bridges as he fiddled with the slingshot. "I know I'm obligated to say that because you're my wife, but it really does look cooler."

"Careful, Pike," she said, shaking the small cake spatula in her hand at him while she walked back towards the sink, "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Flattery is going to get me _everywhere_," he replied slyly, following her into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into her neck while she filled the sink with warm water for the dishes. He kissed her gently, allowing the open palms of his hands to roam over her body. Closing his eyes, Chris inhaled deeply, relishing the flowery smells of her shampoo mixed with her lotion.

Lynn leaned back into her husband's embrace and soaked in the feeling of closeness. A happy little smile broke out across her face while she scrubbed away at the pile of dishes waiting in the sink. She hummed right along to Blake Shelton's "Home" that was playing on the radio and set the dishes in the rack to dry. "You know, not that I dislike this at all Chris, but what brought this on?" Lynn asked, turning her body around to face him. She laid her still-dripping hands over his shoulders, laughing when the suds from the dishes fell onto his shoulders and marched down the back of his sweatshirt.

"Oh, just that I'm married to the most awesome woman in the world," he replied, resting his forehead against hers. Chris buried his nose and mouth into the crook of her neck before he placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. He brought his hands up to cup her face and gently nibbled at her lips with his teeth, sucking gently away when his lips contacted hers.

A most un-adult like giggle escaped Lynn's throat, and she scooted her body closer his. She let her hands slide down his chest, leaving sudsy handprints down the front of his black sweatshirt. Lynn helped him along when Chris' hands went for the hem of the garment, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion to reveal the white Led Zeppelin t-shirt underneath. Throwing it across the room, she lifted herself up on the tips of her toes in a vague attempt to meet his much taller frame while she returned the kiss. Lynn pulled his neck down toward her mouth. Between kisses, she said, "I sense an agenda here, Mr. Pike."

"What agenda?" he replied, pressing his tongue against her exposed teeth, prodding for access to her mouth. Nimble fingers made quick work of the clip holding her shoulder length honey brown hair in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The plastic claw-like accessory went skidding across the kitchen floor, forgotten in the corner by the stove. He reached around and untied the apron from around her waist, pulling the neck strap over Lynn's head before he tossed the garment across the counter toward the sink. Chris ran his hands through her hair, closing his eyes and deepening the kiss. He let out a deep moan of satisfaction when she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned flush against him.

Lynn balanced her hands on her husband's shoulders and with surprising grace, popped herself up and onto the counter with the help of his added height as leverage. She straddled her legs and let Chris sidle in between them while she ran her hands underneath his t-shirt against his chest. She could feel the tiny hairs against her fingertips while she raked her hands up and down his body. It sent little jolts of energy straight to the pit of her belly, and she was enjoying every second of it. Leaning forward, Lynn nibbled on his ear, backing up long enough to say, "You want something, Chris. I know it."

"Isn't it obvious?" he rumbled rhetorically while broad, calloused palms blazed a trail up and down Lynn's back. Chris pushed his hips forward, making his excitement more than clear. His mouth dropped gentle kisses down her neck before he settled in the hollow of her collarbone.

Throwing her head back, Lynn laughed loudly while she squirmed under his ministrations. She shimmied her way forward on the cluttered, wet countertop and wrapped her legs around his waist. "I don't know. Maybe you should show me."

He swayed back and forth from his hips, rocking his wife gently right and left on the counter. The devilish expression in his eyes belied his true motives. Chris waggled his eyebrows and replied, "Maybe I should."

"Hmm," she murmured, closing the distance between their faces. Lynn tilted her head to the right, meeting Chris' soft lips halfway. The stubble of his strong jaw tickled her face, but she never minded it. She had a bit of a soft spot for tall, rugged, good-looking men, and she had to admit her husband fit the bill perfectly. Lynn let herself melt away into Chris' embrace while she reminded herself of all the reasons she loved him.

Measured time slowed; minutes became hours and hours twisted into days. Nothing else important existed in that moment, only the need for each other. He let his hands trail up and down Lynn's hips, pulling her closer while he reached up the back of her shirt. The roar of blood rushing through his ears and the heat of passion Pike felt for his wife, the same tingly feeling he got in the pit of his stomach the day he married her, cascaded over him in waves. All conscious thought was relegated to some unused, dusty, dank part of his brain while instinct took completely over the higher motor functions of his body. Muscle memory allowed Chris to remap every curve, every scar, and every part of Lynn he loved so dearly. And from the looks and sounds he was getting out of her, it was clear she was enjoying herself just as much.

There was no way they were going to make it to the bedroom.

'_Thank God for strong countertops_,' Pike thought in the instant before all his slightly lascivious intentions came crashing to an abrupt halt. He was so singularly focused he didn't hear the car pull into the driveway, nor did he register the rickety metal clanking of their tired garage door laboriously heaving its way open. Chris didn't see his son walk through the threshold of the mudroom off the kitchen, and he certainly didn't hear the clatter of a hockey bag and hockey sticks dropping heavily to the kitchen floor.

Chris' ears did, however, acknowledge the accompanied curse of displeasure from a teenage male voice before, "Jesus Christ! MOM! DAD! _GET A ROOM!_" rang off the walls of the kitchen.

Pike pulled his face a reluctant few inches away from that of his wife's, while Lynn tried unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter into the open palm of her hand. Chris, smirking, continued undressing Lynn with his eyes while he said, "Back from hockey practice already? How was it?"

Ethan Pike stood in the doorway of the kitchen in shock. Hands up in front of his face, gesturing wildly, he said, "No, Dad! That is just wrong. You cannot just change the subject like that after what I just saw. You have ruined this room for me now! I will never be able to come in here for food again when I think about…that! Ugh!"

"Oh, come on. Stop being such a prude. We weren't doing anything gross," Pike replied, finally turning away from Lynn's warm embrace. He leaned casually up against the counter next to her and crossed his arms over his chest. Pike's butt hit the lip of the countertop with a dull thump when he adjusted his stance. His right foot fell naturally over his left, and with most of his weight on one leg, Chris titled his head toward the floor and looked down his nose.

The causal stance his father was sporting wasn't fooling the young man practically gaping like a fish in the doorway. "You weren't doing anything gross? Oh my God, you're kidding me. And _I'm_ the teenager in this house? You were totally macking on Mom when I walked in! There has to be a law against that. I mean, look at you two! You're old! Stuff like this is what they made bedrooms for!" With each passing sentence, Ethan's voice grew louder and higher while his face turned redder. A head-to-toe, full body shudder ran up his tall, lanky frame. "So I say again: Mom, Dad, get a freaking room!"

Chris raised one eyebrow in a gesture the lieutenant knew he learned from his former partner. He wrapped one arm around Lynn's shoulders when she hopped down from her perch on the counter. With a wide sweeping motion of his hands, Chris said, "Ethan, I own this house, so technically _all_ these rooms are mine. You just get the privilege of living here."

A strangled growl escaped the teen. He executed a quarter turn, put his right forearm up against the frame of the mudroom door, and plopped his face into his arm. Pike men didn't cry, but he was damned close to breaking into tears induced by agony. He moaned out a muffled, "I do chores, pay my own car insurance, have a job, play a couple sports, do okay in school, but that's not enough? I have to _SEE MY PARENTS MAKING OUT IN THE KITCHEN_! My eyes are burning!"

"Your school told us they teach you kids about this stuff in health class when you were in eighth grade, and it's not like we haven't had this conversation with you before," Chris started. "How do you think we ended up with you? You know son, the stories you heard about the stork back in the day really weren't true."

"Augh! Not the birds and bees conversation again! I can't take that anymore. Shut up, dad!" Ethan replied, pulling his Bauer hockey trucker-style baseball hat down over his eyes. He grabbed the arm of the stunned young man standing immediately next to him and said, "Come on, Pavel. I'm gonna have a seizure if we don't get the hell out of here, and fast. Let's roll."

"Yes, I think it would be wise for us to leave. You look unwell, my friend," Chekov replied honestly.

"Have you ever walked in on your parents like that? Seriously, dude. I think I need therapy now. Let me get a few things from my room and we'll be out. I need a beer," Ethan said, but stopped and reconsidered when he met his father's sharp gaze. "…Or ice cream. That might work, too."

"That's better," Lynn scolded, shaking a finger at her seventeen-year-old son. "I would hate to see you jeopardize that trip down to Florida you were looking forward to taking this summer with us by doing something stupid now."

"Right, Mom. No trip to Miami for my explorer convention if I get in trouble. Keep hanging that over my head," he grumbled, growing a bit petulant in stance.

Chekov stood and silently watched the exchange between child and parents. As Ethan's best friend, Pavel felt a complete obligation to share his buddy's level of disgusted outrage from the overt display of affection laid out directly in front of them. He might not have needed the 'un-see' button quite as much as the younger Pike, but still, his mind was plenty capable of filling in the blanks. He was, however, glad that he'd been blessed with the gift of multitasking to go with his genius level brainpower. As his feet moved him forward and into the kitchen, Chekov started doing what he did best: he commenced thinking.

As a newly minted US citizen, Pavel also felt an equal obligation to learn the customs and cultures of his new country. It was difficult at first; his awkward acclimation to Iowa City's public school system was rough, but it could have been much worse without Ethan's constant support. Chekov felt like he could ask his American friend anything, and up to that particular moment, he could. Stutter stepping, he scratched at his curly hair before he uttered, "Ethan, I beliewe in America, our sudden entrance is what is known as 'cock block,' da?"

"You did not just go there. No effin' way. You did not just say 'cock block' in reference to my parents in the same sentence," Ethan replied, his jaw falling open in abject horror. He stopped dead in his tracks, whirled around and shoved one finger in Chekov's chest. "Because if you did, and I don't think you're nuts enough to actually do that, I might have to kill you for talking about their sex life." Ethan took a couple menacing steps toward his best friend, fists balled up at his sides. His breaths were coming out in angry huffs, and the barest hit of a growl was starting to rumble in his throat.

Chekov's eyes went wide while he threw his hands up in the air and stepped back toward the door separating the mudroom from the garage. His eyes flicked in the general direction of the best exit while he said, "I have always been able to ask. I just thought it was good expression to use." If he just got a little closer, he could perhaps make a break for it…

"Ethan Christopher Pike! Stop that!" Lynn took three quick steps across her kitchen and lightly cuffed her son's shoulder in warning. "Leave him alone. You know better." She put her hand on the shoulder she'd just smacked and angled him away from the wide-eyed Russian. "I want to show you something. Now come here," she said, motioning to Ethan. She locked gazes with Chekov, and smiling, tilted her head in invitation to him as well. Out loud, Lynn added, You too, Pavel. He won't bite. I'll make sure of that."

Ethan rolled his eyes while shooting his father a glare from across the room. Shaking his head at Chris' wide smirk, the teen turned back toward Lynn and said, "Why do you guys have to embarrass me all the time?"

"Because it's my job. It's in the rulebook of parenting, son," Pike replied, pushing off the counter. He walked toward the stove in the kitchen and picked Lynn's hair clip up off the floor and set it gently near the cutting board next to the sink. He snagged his sweatshirt from where it touched down earlier, slipped it over his head, and joined the trio's pilgrimage to the family dinner table.

"Okay, I do not need to know of that rulebook's existence," he replied, shuddering. Ethan's eyes shifted between the alight expressions on his parents' faces a before he asked, "What's going on here, Mom? Are you guys shipping me off to boot camp? Is that why you look so pleased?"

Lynn snorted. "No, of course not, Ethan, even if we have been tempted in the past." She exchanged a knowing look with her husband before she continued. "This time, it's good news, I promise. Remember that cake you showed me a couple of months ago? The one that you said was all over YouTube?" she asked, her grey eyes twinkling with mischief.

A blank stare met her happy expression. Ethan racked his brain to think about what (appropriate) video he would have showed his mother on the internet, and one involving a cake. He combed through his memories until he found the right one. "Oh!" He exclaimed after a short delay. "The Angry Birds cake?"

"That's the one," she said, leading him around the obstructive cabinets in the horseshoe-shaped kitchen and into the dining area. She gestured toward the table with one hand while she gently gave her son a shove forward.

Ethan looked down. And blinked. And blinked again. A huge, shit-eating smile broke out across his face. "Mom! You did not! It's absolutely awesome!" he yelled, all previous sexual exploits of his parents completely forgotten. He flipped his hat around backwards and made a lap around the table, inspecting every inch of the cake. "You made a playable, for-real Angry Birds cake!"

The cake was sizeable, but not a stretch by any means of Lynn's prolific skill as a top pastry chef. It was faithful in its redesign from the source game; it was as linear as a three dimensional creation based off a two dimensional model could be. At close to four feet long, the cake was much longer than it was wide, but it was tall at almost two feet off the table. Lynn clearly went all out, using various pastry techniques to create what Ethan was sure was an entirely edible cake. He knew his mom didn't like to cheat with cardboard or pre-packaged products on her masterpieces. She was proud of her work and liked to make everything both by hand, and safe to eat.

He gave the slingshot situated at one end of the green, frosting-covered base an experimental tug, marveling that she'd even thought to angle the small plastic launcher away from the cake as to facilitate a better shot. Looking down the slingshot like he was looking down the barrel of a handgun, Ethan took a peek at the level Lynn picked to make.

It wasn't one of the harder levels of the game, but it was definitely awesome. Two fudge-drenched mounds of dark chocolate cake formed ridges on each end of the platform. In between the chocolate valley, a bridge sat, coated in some sort of glaze and made from Special K bar mix. Two large pigs sat below the bridge with a crate of TNT, constructed from graham crackers and frosting, next to each. Above it and on the main part of the suspension bridge, three smaller pigs sat, defiantly smirking at their angry tormentors.

And the pigs.

Ethan threw his head back and laughed when he took a closer look at the birds' adversaries. Instead of crowns or helmets, the bright, neon-green pigs Lynn concocted were adorned with little police hats as an obvious tongue in cheek joke to the profession dominated by the household. No one ever said Chris Pike couldn't make fun of himself, and apparently he'd passed that gene down to his son.

Next to the slingshot, six birds sat, anxiously waiting their turn to be launched. There was one of each kind of bird: the little red one, the blue triple splitting bird, the giant red bird, the triangle yellow bird, the white bird (complete with egg-bomb), the black bomb bird, and finally, the green boomerang bird. Ethan picked each bird up and turned it over in his hands. There was a surprising bit of weight to it, and he made a mental note to ask his mother later what exactly they were made from. For now, he was happy to simply admire her work, and her supreme level of cake-making genius.

Chekov walked silently up to stand next to his best friend, though he stopped a noticeable arm's length away. Ethan rolled his eyes and laughed. He stepped over and put one arm around Chekov. "I'm sorry, dude. I'm gonna claim temporary insanity based on what we saw when we walked in. I think the idea of my parents making out in front of me made my brain freeze."

The Russian's face relaxed visibly and he said, "So you've managed to ctrl-alt-delete, yes?'

Hands on his hips, Ethan pushed his sweatshirt back to allow his fingertips to rest on the top of his jeans. The Tackla belt jacked from his hockey pants (why he used it as a regular belt for his street clothes his parents would never understand) poked out from under the hem of his team sweatshirt. "I think it was more like the blue screen of death. It required the power to be cut and then restarted in safe mode."

"Fair enough, my friend," Pavel replied. "I understand now."

"Trust you to only get it when I used a computer reference," the younger Pike said with a smirk. "Now come here and check out this sweet-ass cake!"

Chekov practically bounced on the balls of his feet while he examined Lynn's handiwork. He reached out to touch some of the props and the cake itself, but pulled his hand back at the last second. He straightened, looking at his best friend with a quizzical expression. "Ethan, I did not realize it was your birthday. I would hawe brought you a present."

"It's not my birthday, numb nuts. That was this summer. Remember? We went and raced those go-karts around?"

"Well, yes. Of course I remember that. You lost. But this birthday you speak of - I thought I knew, but now, I am just confused," Pavel replied, eyes practically crossing while his brain tried to make heads or tails of it all.

Ethan chuckled. For such a book smart kid, Pavel still lacked quite a bit in the street smarts department. Figuring at least he had that part covered (and what made them such a good team), Ethan pointed to the massive pastry taking over the Pikes' kitchen table. "Chekov, read the cake."

The young Russian genius tipped his head to the side and surveyed the pastry. "'Happy birthday Len, Bones and McCoy? There are three people celebrating birthdays today? That must be rare occurrence," Pavel said, looking around the room at Ethan, and also at Lynn and Chris, the latter two having come to stand behind their son. Chris still had his arm draped around Lynn's shoulders, and she was leaning her head into the space made in the crook of his arm.

Lynn laughed at the owlish, innocent look on Chekov's face. The kid had the expressions of an angel, but the thought processes of the devil. Idly, she wondered if Kirk was the same way as a child, but just better with things that blew up. She shook her head at that thought, not in the slightest bit envying Winona Kirk. It was amazing the woman didn't need therapy after raising a little hellion like Jim. Reaching out, she tousled Chekov's hair and answered, "No, that's just one person."

"Then who? I thought it was customary in America to put only first name on cake," Chekov half-asked, motioning with his hands through the air.

"Normally, you'd be right," Pike replied, noting Pavel's befuddlement with a silent chuckle. "But we couldn't decide which name to use, since everyone calls him something different. So, we thought it would be okay to go with all three."

Ethan nodded and chimed in his two cents as clarification. "Chekov, you remember McCoy, my dad's old partner, right? Mid thirties, sometimes is a little cranky, about the same height as dad, dark hair, and epic eyebrow? You know, the one from Georgia?" he supplied. "My Georgia, southeast US, not your Georgia, near Russia."

Chekov scratched his head. Slowly, a flush started working its way up from the collar of his shirt before coloring his face a light pink. The night he met Pike's old partner was definitely not a highlight of his time thus far in America. At the time, his exploits seemed like a good idea, but after a very irritated Sergeant McCoy and an equally amused Officer Kirk dragged him back home, it hadn't been so cool. Neither had the punishment imposed by his parents of a month's forced manual labor been particularly stunning. Stuttering, Pavel said, "Yes, I remember now. When we uh, _borrowed_ that scraper from construction site, he brought me back home to my parents. He is wery serious man."

Ethan shook his head. "Chekov, that was three years ago! It's ancient history. Let it go, dude!"

Pike snorted. "You haven't been around him enough, Pavel. Just give him an hour, so he starts to get to know you. He'll relax, which is good, because he's actually funny when he's not arresting you. Not that you two juvenile delinquents didn't deserve it," Chris added, shooting the teens twin disapproving glares.

'Cool under pressure' must have been a genetically superior trait in the Pike family, because Ethan didn't even register his dad's evil eye. He bumped Chekov on the arm, before he said, "Yeah, man. He's not as serious as you think, but you just have to get to know him. It took me a while to get him to thaw out, but I think he's a pretty cool guy now. Besides, his new-ish partner is coming over, too, and Jim is awesome!"

"Yes, I know Jim Kyrk," Pavel said. "He was the funny one that night."

Pike bit down a curse and made a mental note to keep Chekov, Ethan and Kirk as far away from each other as possible. Kirk and Pavel were bad enough; the world ending prospect of three of them teaming up was too scary for words. '_Speaking of Jim_,' he thought. Pike checked his watch (again) and said out loud, "I wonder where Kirk and Scotty are. They should be here by now."

As if on cue, the sound of a high horsepower, obscenely modified BMW engine pulling into the Pikes' driveway wafted to Chris' ears. He heard three doors open before they slammed shut again. The only audible voice was that of Pike's former partner, the man's telltale drawl carrying on about the injustice of life, and God only knew what else. Chris wandered back into the kitchen to wait for his wet team, confident that Jim had indeed been forced to execute his order of aggravated persuasion to 'convince' McCoy to come to his own party.

'_This should be interesting_,' Chris thought, plastering a satisfied smirk on his face in preparation. The bitching arced into a high crescendo while Kirk, Scotty and McCoy made their way toward the door outside the threshold of the kitchen. Jim cracked the mudroom divider open with his foot and turned, attempting to pull McCoy through with brute force. The sergeant was having none of it, stubbornly refusing to move until Kirk tugged at just the right angle. McCoy's body lurched forward, and he lost his footing on the welcome mat strategically placed at the bottom of the stairs to catch dirt and snow. Without his hands to help aid his balance, he was kept from smashing his face on the concrete only by Jim's quick reaction.

Liberal cursing, both general and directed at other people, floated through the crack in the door while Scotty and Kirk tried the push-pull method to physically shove McCoy up the stairs and into the Pike house's kitchen. Their level of success was debatable at best, though downright pathetic would probably have been a more accurate depiction. Jim lost his grip on his partner's jacket and nearly tumbled down the stairs himself, allowing the mudroom door he'd previously opened to snap back shut. It muffled the argument, but not enough to where the house's occupants couldn't visualize the play-by-play of the competition that was taking place five feet outside the door.

"Hey Chekov, a month of snowblowing the winner's driveway this year says McCoy punches my dad in the face," Ethan whispered in his best friend's ear from his chair at the kitchen table, wincing while he listened to the argument just outside the door.

Pavel silently turned his head and pondered the proposition. "I do not know this McCoy you speak of. I remember him only from the one encounter you described, but I believe you have given me enough information." He reached out and accepted Ethan's open palm. In an equally hushed voice, he replied, "I do not think he will resort to physical violence. Is the correct expression, 'You are on'?"

"Of course you'd have to get that one right," he scoffed. The incredulity didn't last long, however. Smug, Ethan sat back, slouching with an air that exuded steely confidence. He infused his voice with a cocky swagger when he stated matter-of-factly, "You're going down, bro."

In the corner of the room, Chris stood by his lonesome, silently watching while he hoped his laughter was quiet enough that it wasn't audible to the two teens. He wasn't sure which outcome of the bet was going to prove more amusing, but he knew he was going to find out. Whatever happened, it was going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

A lot of fun, that is, if he could get McCoy in the door first.

* * *

**Next Up**: McCoy is literally rendered speechless by Lynn Pike. Meanwhile, Chris wonders how he can duplicate the feat, and Jim tries to dodge his understandably angry partner.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**: Last summer, I occupied myself with hours upon hours of Angry Birds. I'm glad I couldn't find a game timer within that app, because I know it would have depressed me if I'd seen how much time I wasted launching various birds at little green pigs. I'd probably have been able to write a couple of stories in that time! Or, I suppose I could have started about six fics and maybe completed one. Such is my life. This chapter was kind of the nucleus of the idea, with what the inclusion of Angry Birds into the cop!verse. And then it grew, and grew, and grew. I hope no one's complaining.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own. Please don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Do you think we should go out there and make sure they're killing each other? It kind of sounds like they need a referee."

From his seated perch atop the kitchen counter, Chris thought about it, shrugged, and then waved a dismissive hand toward his son. He dipped his hand in the veggie tray and snagged a couple of carrot sticks before dunking them liberally into the tub of ranch dressing nestled in the middle. Crunching loudly, he replied with his mouth half full, "Nah. I told Kirk that he couldn't go armed, and I know McCoy leaves his service weapon in his locker at the station. I think they're going to be okay."

"He still has that backup PM9 of his. You know, the one he carries on his right hip, inside the waistband of his pants when he's off duty?" Ethan answered, joining his father in the kitchen to attack the veggie tray. "If he hadn't left his house all day, Jim's probably fine, but if Len had anywhere to go beforehand, you can bet that he's got that thing on him."

Carrot halfway to his mouth, Chris stopped in shock. Ethan was observant, but that was ridiculous. Even more outrageous was that his son was right on every single account of how McCoy carried, both on and off duty. Quizzically, Pike looked at his progeny and asked, "Just how the hell did you know all that?"

Ethan waggled his eyebrows up and down before he reached in and fished a couple of snow pea pods from the tray. Shrugging, he leaned up against the apex of the counter and faced his father. "We've known him a long time, Dad. Remember when I was a little kid and I always wanted to try and wrestle him? I could feel the lip on the magazine and the top of the holster when his right side bumped me. Besides, it's not like you've never taken me to the range when he's been there, too. You taught me to shoot just as much as McCoy did," the teen added.

"Yeah, but I only started doing that a couple of years ago. McCoy's had that gun forever," Chris replied, flabbergasted his son picked up that much information without him noticing it.

"I live with a cop," he said with a mighty roll of his eyes. "I was born observant."

"Now that," Chris said, snorting while he pointed a celery stick at his son's face, "is mightily debatable."

The echo of voices coming up the stairs cut off Ethan's reply, though the kid's dramatically miffed expression said it all. Though the thick exterior door that separated the mudroom from the garage muffled the words, there was no mistaking McCoy's irritated, borderline angry tone flittering through. The Pikes and Chekov all subconsciously leaned toward the threshold, hoping to hear what was actually being said. The brass knob turned slowly, and the two in front of the door, Chris and Ethan, felt the instant rush of crisp early winter air snake into the house.

In terms of the epic factor, what they saw next was _totally_ worth the extra wait.

McCoy's bitching was predictably prolific. From the moment Chris heard the three doors of Scotty's car open and close to the moment Len was marched up the stairs in the garage and into the house, his mouth never stopped moving against the grand injustice that was his life. Carrying on about everything from the weather to the set up that was the duty roster, McCoy paused long enough only to breathe. Idly, Pike wondered if he should have sent duct tape with Scotty and Kirk, because Len was taking full advantage of the fact they hadn't thought to tape his mouth shut.

McCoy cleared the doorway to the mudroom, kicked off his shoes on the appropriate mat opposite the washer and dryer out a force of habit, and zeroed in on the first target his sharp vision registered. He bellowed out, "Chris, goddammit, I know this kidnapping is your fault, and I don't appreciate it!" The sergeant's eyes shifted to the young man standing next to his superior officer; Ethan was doing a very poor job of disguising his laughter. McCoy's expression softened for a split second before he muttered, "Hey, Ethan."

"McCoy," the teen replied, going for the veggie tray as a convenient excuse to turn his back to hide his shit-eating smirk.

"And, happy birthday to you, Len," Pike replied, raising an eyebrow while the sentence rolled smoothly off his tongue. Hopping down from his seat on the recessed point of the counter, he added flippantly, "Nice of you to come."

McCoy managed to work himself into a substantial rage on the way over, and it only took the sound of Chris' voice to trigger a refocus of all the negativity. His face twisted into a snarl, with the tone of his voice following suit. "Nice of me to come? Kiss my ass, Pike. It's insulting enough that I'm here instead of at my house where I belong without being blatantly patronized," Len bitched loudly. His eyes darted around the room, finally noticing the other occupants stationed strategically around the kitchen. "Does anyone else see _anything_ at all wrong with this picture?"

Chris didn't give his family time to answer when he replied, "Well, you're here, aren't you?"

"Oh, you want to talk about how that happened? Great! Because I'd love to," McCoy began sarcastically. "I was tackled in my living room, dragged out the door, and thrown in the back of a car. I should charge all of you with unlawful imprisonment before I kick your asses." The jacket draped loosely around his shoulders slipped down his back and off his body. It landed on the kitchen floor with a loud 'plop' before Len rattled the handcuffs. "As soon as I'm loose, I am bringing you to the hospital so I can check you for dementia. It could be early onset, because I would _hope_ you're not crazy enough to order an arrest of your subordinate."

Pike simply smirked triumphantly. Words were a moot point, for the superior-bordering-on-arrogant countenance on Chris' face said all that was necessary.

…Or maybe Pike was nuts enough to do it. His eyebrow ratcheting up a few more notches, Len said, "I am going to kill you. I don't know how, but I will."

"By all means, have at it," Pike replied, shoving a piece of cauliflower in his mouth. He chewed it and stared at his former partner while he waited for some kind of response. When none was forthcoming, Chris baited the hook just a _little_ bit more with a sly, "You're the one still in cuffs in my kitchen." His expression dared McCoy to contradict him, which was clearly too much temptation for the sergeant to ignore. Well aware of all things McCoy, Pike knew that Len would A) Curse him out under his breath, and B) Find someone lower on the food chain to abuse in his stead, before C) Allowing his mouth to do some very fine verbal sparring.

Predictably, McCoy's jaw snapped shut while he silently seethed. He called Chris every name in the book in his head, taking a deep, not-so-calming breath in the process before the next volley of insults sprang from his mouth. "I'm blaming your poor judgment today on mob mentality and the influence of youthful idiocy," he started, narrowing his eyes in contempt at Pike. Chris caught and held the gaze, which was only interrupted by the incredulity of two men standing behind him.

"Hey!" Scotty and Kirk exclaimed at the same time, each wisely edging away from the angry sergeant to find a place next to Pike.

"This ain't a debate. You two _are_ idiots," McCoy said succinctly while he shifted his barbed glare at his two kidnappers. "And I wasn't asking for your opinion. I'm stating facts." To Pike, he said, "As for you, this is low. I had my day all planned out, one that involved relaxation, peace and quiet," he began.

"Whatever," Pike muttered. "Don't think you can fool me, Len. I've known you too long to buy that line of bullshit. Without our intervention, your day of 'relaxation' today would have amounted to nothing but sitting on your ass in front of your TV, wallowing all by yourself in that apartment of yours. And you know what I think about that. I'm saving you from your own mediocrity."

Though his first instincts were to try and contradict his superior, the sergeant knew that Pike's point was more than valid. So, he settled on deflection instead. "I was just fine with my mediocrity. Unless your plan for the day involves a free trip to Hawaii, thanks but no thanks. I'm going home," McCoy ground out.

"Not happening, Len, at least not on my watch. Sorry," Chris apologized halfheartedly. He walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer and a ginger ale, popping the top of the longneck with the bottle opener on the counter. Pike took a healthy pull from the bottle, relishing the cool and slightly bitter flavor of the lager as it made its way down his throat. The lieutenant nudged the soda in the direction of his former partner before he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, flipping dramatically through it until he found the one he wanted. He grabbed Len by the shoulder, flipped him around and stuck the tiny key in the cuffs. He caught Scotty's slightly nervous expression along with Jim's aloof one out of the corner of his eye. Before he flicked his wrist to unlock the metal bracelets, Pike asked, "If I un-cuff you, do you promise to play nice?"

McCoy snorted, his eyes sliding to the open beverage. "Do you mean, 'Will I kill them'?"

Chris nodded. "Yep. That."

"No, I won't kill either of them," McCoy sighed out. "Now get these damn things off me. I can't feel my hands."

Pike laughed. "McCoy, the whole point of cuffs is that they _are_ uncomfortable. It's a subtle reminder to the general population that they should behave. Not that they ever actually get that memo," he added with a snort. Chris held McCoy's wrists steady, and with a click, popped the locking mechanism. He pulled on the cuffs open, the teeth of the metal clicking and snapping as they came free. With a flourish, Pike stuck his hand out and caught the metal bracelets when they fell away from Len's wrists. He reset and twisted them up with practiced ease, and laid the heavy cuffs on the counter.

McCoy used the first few seconds of freedom to shake some circulation back into his numb hands while he massaged his sore wrists. "Thanks," he muttered. He shot a fleeting, grateful look towards Pike before he turned a murderous glare towards Kirk. The icy cold beverage he was lusting after moments earlier was instantly forgotten. It sat forlornly on the counter, dripping condensation onto the surface while Len growled, balled up his fists, and advanced on his current partner.

"Bones, you said you wouldn't kill me!" Kirk said with a laugh, backing up into the kitchen.

Fixated on nothing but the need to inflict a little suffering as payback, McCoy hissed out simply, "I never said that I wouldn't beat your ass into the carpet, you little shit."

Kirk, busy trying to keep his partner from killing him, tried several tactics in evasive maneuvers, none of which were particularity effective. First, he attempted to simply avoid McCoy, but there were too many (breakable) obstacles inside Chris' house for the strategy to be effective. He thought that perhaps he could use Pike as a human shield, since it was his order, but all that materialized from that idea was a hefty shove back toward said angry sergeant. Resigned to his fate and ready to take one for the team, Jim stopped in the middle of the kitchen, squeezed his eyes shut, and waited for the inevitable.

But instead of the MMA style thrashing Kirk thought he was going to receive, a shrill whistle grabbed everyone's attention (and hurt a couple of eardrums in the process). The room's thrumming motion came to a crashing, screeching halt while six sets of eyes darted toward the source. Lynn dropped her hand from her mouth, set one hand on her hip and said sternly, "Okay, gentlemen. That's enough. Len, you don't have permission to kill your partner, and Chris, stop antagonizing everyone."

"What did I do?" Pike asked incredulously, placing one hand over his chest.

Lynn simply glared in silent reply. "You know what you did."

Kirk picked that very moment to chime in, "Yeah, he interferes. He can't help it. It's what he does. Hey, do you think that trait genetic?" he asked, looking toward Ethan.

"Thank you, Jim. That will be all," Pike said, taking a deep breath to quell the spike in his blood pressure before it made him light-headed. '_Goddamned kids._'

Rolling her eyes, Lynn suppressed the urge to smack all three of them. Scotty kept himself wisely silent; the only sound that was coming from the mechanic was the occasional snicker, and the Pike matriarch wished that her husband and his two subordinates would take note. Cutting into the conversation, she stepped over to McCoy's side. She put her arm around his shoulders and angled him away from Kirk. "Len, you can't be anti-social forever. It's not allowed," she started in her typical, no bullshit fashion. "But for once, you can't really be mad at Jim and Chris. This party was my idea, so you're venting your anger at the wrong people."

McCoy arched a surprisingly neat eyebrow up while, at the same time, he looked down into Lynn's soft blue eyes. Len physically towered over her, but her amazing presence in a room was positively mind-blowing. Because of Lynn's larger-than-life persona, McCoy often forgot what a slight woman she was. Face faltering, he said, "Your idea? Lynn, you should have just called and saved yourself the trouble. You know what I feel about stuff like this," he said, doing his best not to squirm in front of her.

"I know you hate being the center of attention, but it's been too long since we've done anything for you," she replied, patting him gently on the arm.

"You should have kept it that way," Len muttered, not entirely under his breath. The tension in his voice was painfully audible, and he cursed himself silently for letting it slip past his defenses. It took sheer will to force down the rosy pink shade that was trying to work its way through to his cheeks. The complete dissection of his psyche under of Lynn's motherly stare always made Len feel like he was six years old again, caught with his hand firmly entrenched in the cookie jar. Yes, even on occasions during which he did nothing wrong. McCoy cleared his throat, shifted his stance and pursed his lips. "I hate parties. Always have. You know that."

Ethan and Pavel, somehow silent through the entire debacle, chose just the right moment to pipe up. "Don't say that until you see your cake, McCoy," the younger Pike shot out. His vocal enthusiasm was contagious; even if his expert timing was a hereditary gift, there was no mistaking just how thrilled the teen was at whatever was about to happen.

As energized as Ethan clearly was, McCoy was equal parts confused. Anger, embarrassment and frustration forgotten, his eyebrows descended downward to form a deep, creased valley on his forehead. Wariness, he learned early on, was a wise default setting around members of the Pike family. They were all like little children - too much silence was a bad thing, and big, happy faces normally meant he was about to get punked. "My cake? What?" The sergeant spun around on one foot toward the sound of the younger Pike's voice.

"Yes, your cake," Ethan replied slowly, sticking his head through the small opening made between the countertop and the bottom of the cabinets. Pointing, he added, "The one that's over here."

McCoy stepped around the obstructive cabinets, opened his mouth to make his obligatory smart-assed remark, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the huge cake sprawled across the table. His eyes flickered toward Ethan and Pavel in time for his brain to register the fact that both teens were wearing identical, massive grins while silently guffawing. He read the green lettering on the cake once, and then read it again just to be sure. Blinking in shock, McCoy simply stood, rooted firmly in place as if his feet were suddenly glued to the floor. His jaw opened, closed, opened again, and stayed hanging down by his toes.

Leonard McCoy was stunned silent. Well, praise Jesus from whom all blessings flow and many other types of happy bullshit.

Pike, Jim, Scotty and Lynn all walked around the counter of the kitchen to the dining area. They came to a halt directly behind McCoy to watch his reaction, all neatly pleased with the sound that was _not_ coming out of his mouth. Scotty quietly pulled his iPhone from his pocket and hit the 'record' button while Jim peeked over the mechanic's shoulder to watch. Kirk stifled a giggle, wondering how fast the video would go viral once Scotty posted it.

"I don't know what to say," Len said after a beat he needed to take in order to let the speech center of his brain recover.

"How about, 'thank you'," Chris supplied, giving McCoy a manly pat on the back.

Caught off guard, Pike's slap jolted Len forward a foot, but also kick-started his brain back in motion. He turned toward Chris and, fighting a wide grin, replied genuinely, "Thank you. I don't know how you guys did it, but this is really cool." McCoy turned toward Jim and Scotty and added gruffly, "The cake, not the handcuffs."

"Don't look at me, McCoy. You know I can't cook worth a shit. You're thanking the wrong person," Pike said, laughing to break the stare down stalemate. "Thank my wife, but I'm sure even you could have figured that out."

With the smirk off the corner of his mouth growing into a full-blown smile, McCoy shoved Jim and Scotty aside to get to Lynn. But instead of the verbal gratitude the room was expecting, Len reached out and engulfed her in a huge bear hug. She returned it with matching ferocity and held it for a few seconds. Stepping back, he grasped her by the shoulders and said, "Thank you. I don't know where the idea came from, but I love it. Almost makes the bullshit of how you got me over here worth it."

"Wow. He's agreeing with us. _And_ he was silent. That's a whole can of amazing, twice in one day," Jim stated succinctly. Popping the door open, he reached in the fridge to procure two beers, one for himself and the other for Scotty. Juggling the two open bottles in one hand, Kirk pulled a pen from the drawer in the kitchen with the other. He walked over to the calendar Lynn kept tacked on the wall next to the refrigerator, stopping in front of it while he thought of what to say. Smirking, he lifted the pen and wrote, 'Bones agrees that Jim is awesome,' on the correct day before shoving the writing utensil back where it belonged.

"I said 'almost' Jim. I didn't say it was totally worth it," McCoy instantly corrected before he walked over to take a look at his cake. "And stop writing that crap on Lynn's calendar, or I'll cite you for property damage."

The phrase might have been vintage McCoy, but insulting Jim was so automatic, the sentence tumbled from his mouth without much conscious thought. Len was completely engrossed in his cake, walking around it much like Ethan did when he first saw it. Tempted to play, McCoy gingerly tested the slingshot's durability, making a pleased grunt when kept pulling with a hefty amount of force. The small projectile vehicle stayed firmly in place while Len went on to explore the other facets of the masterful design. Both Ethan and Chekov leaned forward, anxious to help the sergeant 'explore' the cake. Kirk and Scotty joined the trio at the table, and before long, the quintet broke into comfortable banter over who was the best at Angry Birds. Cell phones magically appeared from pockets, the five comparing high scores, Mighty Eagle feathers, and captured golden eggs.

Lynn looked on with a satisfied smirk. Knowing they'd be well occupied for at least a few minutes, she turned toward the kitchen and busied herself with the dinner she'd planned on serving. The luscious, savory smell of her homemade lasagna wafted from the oven, and by Chris' poorly-disguised hovering, it was clear he was hungry. All afternoon, he managed to find little excuses that allowed him to stay in the kitchen while she worked on the from-scratch pasta sauce with her homegrown tomatoes. He'd attempted to sneak a taste while she layered in the meat and cheese over the noodles. Lynn finally banished Chris from the kitchen entirely (after delivering a hard whack to his knuckles via her wooden spatula) after she caught him cutting a, "little, tiny corner," from the edge of the uncooked pan.

From her vantage point below the cupboards, the Pike matriarch was happy to see that Jim, for once, doing a semi-acceptable job of keeping himself clear of the kitchen. Normally, having Kirk over for a meal meant Lynn spent a good portion of her time attempting to pare his advances while he tried to sample whatever it was she was making. This time, the cake she made was a convenient distraction as McCoy, Kirk, Scotty, Chekov and Ethan all bickered over the best way to completely demolish the level. It was both adorable and frightening at the same time, given two of the men currently yelling at one another over which Angry Bird was better were both allowed to carry fully loaded firearms on a daily basis.

'_There is no such thing as a dull day in the Pike household,_' she thought. Glancing over his shoulder, Lynn pulled the ingredients for a Caesar salad from the fridge and shoved the gathered bowl in her husband's chest. "Here," she said in the authoritative mother tone, "If you're going to stand in my kitchen while I cook, at least make yourself useful. You can handle putting together the salad."

"That's about all he's good for in the kitchen," McCoy supplied from the vicinity of the table while he examined the durability of the fondant birds. It seemed like such an innocent phrase, and normally, it would have been. Just not today.

All motion in the home stopped. For a brief moment, all seven people sat, slack jawed and unsure what to do or say, but for different reasons. But after a couple brief seconds and at exactly the same time, Pike snorted, Lynn giggled, Ethan paled a solid three shades, and Chekov made a sound that was suspiciously close to a gag.

Scotty's eyebrows jumped to his hairline while leaned over to where Jim sat. Kirk was clearly both confused and amused; his head was ping ponging about the room while he studied the three Pikes and their "adopted" Russian. In a faux whisper, Scotty said, "I think we missed something here, but I'm not entirely sure I want to know what it is. Look at the lads there. I think they might just explode if we're not careful."

Jim grunted in agreement. "Probably, but I," he started, pausing long enough to drape his arm around Scotty's neck, "actually want to know what it was. Sounds juicy, man. Spill. Cop's orders."

"Dude, you have no idea. Just don't go there. Trust me," Ethan said in response, unsuccessfully repressing a full-body shudder. He knew he'd never be able to absolutely wipe his mind of the images from earlier, but he did _not_ need to be reminded of them.

"Jim, leave the kid alone before he has a heart attack," McCoy said over his shoulder. "Not everyone needs to be as corrupted as you."

"I am not corrupted, Bones. I'm unique. Don't hate the player. Hate the game," Jim replied with a very, very smug grin.

McCoy swiveled around in his chair, the strings on his sweatshirt whirling about before they hit him in the face. He pointed one long finger at his partner and said, "Kid, it's my birthday, as you've rudely reminded me, so that apparently gives me the right to do whatever I want, to whomever I want. And right now, I swear I will find a 'unique' way to 'hate' on you if you don't shut up!"

"Right on, McCoy!" Ethan said, giving an empathic fist-pump in the air.

Jim glared at the younger Pike. "I thought you were supposed to be on my side."

Ethan shrugged. "Well, normally I am, but that was just really good. Sorry, man."

Len leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He raised one eyebrow in a silent challenge to Kirk, thinking he'd won the argument.

Out of visual range of the table's occupants, Chris was not as sure. He exchanged a glance with his wife while he dumped the contents of the bag of lettuce in the bowl. Without so much as a hitch in his motions, he replied, "Careful, McCoy. Keep that shit up, and I'll make sure you don't get any lasagna." He added the croutons and cheese and gave the lettuce a toss with the forks he'd extracted from the drawer, totally unaffected by the equal parts confusion and disgust in the room.

McCoy scowled silently at Pike while weighing his odds on success if he chose to engage his boss in a verbal sparring match. Thinking better of it, he cursed under his breath before conceding reluctant defeat. Lynn's lasagna was to die for, enough to the point that he'd shut his mouth and do exactly as he was told if the alternative was that he got none at all. "Fine," he groused, poking at the pigs lining the bridge of the cake. He turned his head back toward Chris in the kitchen, and making eye contact with the man, added a threatening, "But if you idiots think you're singing to me, you all have another thing coming." To accentuate his point, McCoy pulled up the hem of his sweatshirt to expose the small holster and off duty weapon attached to his belt, situated above his right pocket.

Ethan barked a laugh and turned toward his father. "Told you."

* * *

**Next Up**: McCoy, with no thanks to Kirk, finds out if the cake is _actually _playable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes**: It's not been a happy weekend at casa de Gix. Last week, a good friend of mine lost a family member in a car accident. On Friday, my fiancé's grandmother passed away (though that was not unexpected), and yesterday I found out that a longtime friend died suddenly. I apologize for the delay in posting this stuff, but I've been a bit preoccupied. That said, it's looking like Minnesota finally. It's snowing. A lot. As such, yours truly is stuck at home. I don't dare leave for fear that I won't make it back up my driveway when I return. But I suppose that's good news for all of you, because in lieu of doing more Christmas shopping, I'm going to finish posting Defining Family. Enjoy chapter 4!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Don't own. Make no money. Am sad. Lol.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Are you guys finished cleaning up in there yet?" Kirk hollered from the vicinity of the living room. For such a fine, upstanding officer, the tone of his voice sounded very close to that of a whine. Jim pouted his way over to Chris' recliner and made himself at home, observing the actual work being done in the kitchen.

"We'd be done a hell of a lot faster if you got off your ass and helped, Kirk!" Pike replied, calling over his shoulder while he rinsed a plate. Giving it a healthy shake, he stuck it in the dish rack to dry with the others while he glared under the cabinets at his young-ish former recruit.

"I'd love to help Lieu, but I've been barred from leaving my partner's sight. He told me that, and I quote, 'Where he goes, I go, so help my sorry ass'. He ordered me to sit and stay in the living room while he went to the can, and since I have to ride in a car with him for a week, I don't need him any more pissed off that he usually is. You know how that goes," Jim answered, kicking his feet up on the ottoman and grabbing the latest copy of Top Gear UK from the magazine holder next to Chris' recliner. He flipped it open to the review of the Koenigsegg CCX, salivating over the car's performance numbers and sleek, appealing looks.

"Well, I'll be damned. He does have a brain rattling around the dark recesses of his head," McCoy quipped sarcastically, suddenly appearing out of nowhere to hover over Jim's left shoulder.

Kirk practically jumped; he was so engrossed in the magazine article (particularly the fact that the CCX did the 0-60 test in 3.2 seconds _and_ that its predecessor was proud owner the biggest speeding ticket ever issued - 242 MPH in Texas) that he never heard his partner return from the bathroom located down the hall. "Bones! Don't scare me like that, man. You're going to give me a heart attack."

"You're a cop, Jim. You're supposed to have awareness. And besides, after all the food you ate tonight, I don't see how your unfortunate death could be considered my fault. My arteries are offended on your behalf. You've got enough cheese coagulating throughout your body to choke a horse, and the twelve breadsticks you ate have enough carbs to make up your daily intake for a week. How you haven't dropped dead of a myocardial infarction yet is beyond me," McCoy fired back.

"I have plenty of awareness, but not when I'm at Pike's house. You know his rules: check all badges at the door," Kirk said before he tisked out loud. "And Bones, would you stop using those lame-ass, annoying medical terms? When you do it, it makes you sound so old. Not that you care about that, but I'm just saying."

The sergeant just rolled his eyes. "Google it, kid. And while you're at it, why don't you Google a real supercar, one that starts with 'Ford' and ends with 'GT'," he said, looking down at the article Jim was reading. He snatched the magazine from Kirk's lap and flipped through a couple of pages, all over Jim's protestations over having his reading material rudely stolen. "This is blasphemy," he ranted. "Why the hell would anyone buy a supercar from Sweden? This is the same country that gave us ABBA, IKEA and Saab. Tell me which one of those have been at all useful."

"Hey, I like IKEA. What's wrong with their furniture?" Jim asked.

"How about the fact you have to assemble it," McCoy grumbled under his breath, shuddering at the dark day he thought he could buy and assemble a Billy bookcase from the wretched store. It ended…badly.

Jim disagreed, since he never met something he couldn't conquer, European furniture included. "Bones, you just lack ambition. Or ability. Either way, you shouldn't count the Swedes and their CCX out," Kirk proclaimed. "It's just awesome."

"I don't think so. If I ever buy a supercar, I'd like to at least be able to pronounce its name," McCoy said with a flip of his hand at the article in his hand. He dumped the magazine back into Jim's lap and wandered over to find a place on the couch.

From the other side of the kitchen, Scotty was just finishing his assignment of storing the lasagna pan and baking sheets when his ears picked up the motoring-related conversation. He stood, tossed the dishrag on the counter and sauntered into the living room, fully intent on setting the supercar record straight for his somewhat challenged American friends. As the resident mechanic (and proper petrol-head Brit), Scotty believed with his heart and soul that he was the most qualified to dish out the right information, and he took the task very seriously.

"All right now." The Scotsman cleared his throat to grab the Kirk and McCoy's attention before he stated matter of factly, "You two idiots don't know a thing about supercars. You," he began, pointing to Jim, "Want a supercar that doesn't have enough downforce to keep the bloody thing on the track, and you," he said, motioning alternately to McCoy, "Want a supercar that is gets negative three miles to the gallon, and is made by a company whose acronym of 'Fix Or Repair Daily' is fitting. No, what you blokes do need, I reckon, is the Bugatti Veyron," Scotty said cheerfully. "It's 253 miles per hour of speedy, pure driving exhilaration."

From behind him, a broad set of hands landed on his shoulders. Chris gave Scotty's entire body a manly shake of hello. "And at $1.7 million, I'd better not see any of you three driving that car, or someone's going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to Spock," Pike said, joining the conversation mid-stream. "Now, we're done with clean up, so why don't you all come back into the kitchen and we'll cut the cake."

All disagreements about horsepower were instantly forgotten. Like they'd all been shot out from a cannon, Jim, McCoy and Scotty were all up and out of the room so quickly, Pike swore all he saw were streaks of the colors of their clothes. He looked over at the table to find the trio sitting a bit too pleasantly for his liking. Double taking, Chris' eyes registered the sudden appearance of Ethan and Pavel, who'd mysteriously taken off to Ethan's room right after clearing the dishes off the table. "How does this always happen?" he asked helplessly to Lynn while dropping onto one of the breakfast bar stools situated opposite one of the long sides of the table.

"Don't ask me. They're your problem children," she replied, throwing up her hands while she added, "None of them ever seem to want to grow up," to her statement.

McCoy, trying his best to look dignified (and failing miserably), rolled his eyes. Clearly, he was just as excited as the rest of the crew, but was at least making an attempt to be polite. He turned his head toward his current partner and wished for a leash to stop him from bouncing in his chair. "Jim, a half hour ago, you were moaning about how full you were, and now you want more food?"

"There's always room for cake," Kirk said succinctly while exchanging high fives with both Ethan and Pavel.

"True that!" the teen said, returning Jim's gesture. "And, finally! I thought we'd never get to this point! I call that big chocolate piece," Ethan announced after huffing out a dramatic breath. He shifted, leaning his elbows on the table before he pointed toward his mother's masterpiece. With a lustful gaze, he stared at the momentous birthday cake sitting perched in front of him. Barely able to restrain himself, Ethan wanted nothing more than to dive head first into the cake with the gusto of a starving man.

Next to him, Pavel was looking a bit more civilized and less like the Homer Simpson impression his friend was hitting with surprising and disturbing accuracy. Motioning toward the cake, Chekov asked, "Which big piece? I do not see just one."

"That one," Ethan answered, pointing haphazardly while he reached toward the cake. With one finger, he took a healthy swipe of fudge frosting from the backside of the bridge design. His wandering hand was met with a firm smack on the knuckles, courtesy of his mother. "Mom! Ow!" he said, glaring while he shook out his hand.

"Ethan! Get your fingers out of that cake. It might have been your idea, but it's not for you. And, young man, if you think you're going to eat the entire valley construction, you are out of your mind," Lynn scolded. "You'll make yourself sick."

"But Moooom! It's layered German chocolate fudge," the teen whined.

"…Which was not made for you," she finished, staring down at her son with all the authority of a well-seasoned mother.

"I don't know. He's got a point," Pike chimed in from his corner of the room, directly after his wife's sentence was clear of her mouth. He'd tipped his chair backwards to brace it against the wall, in effect making a recliner out of one of the stool. His head was tipped back against the top of the backrest, and his hands were folded on top of his chest. Without so much as moving an inch, Chris added, "Besides, if he eats the whole thing and winds up puking all night, whose fault is that?"

"He most certainly does _not_ have a valid point. Don't encourage your son, Chris. He's got enough of your DNA to find trouble without outside interference," she scolded.

Pike opened his eyes, and with a weary groan, set his feet back on the floor from where they'd been propped up on the barstool situated next to the breakfast bar. Raising an eyebrow to his wife's exasperated glare, he said, "Oh, come on, Lynn. You can let him have one little piece. I can't imagine it will affect the structural integrity of the cake in the long run."

"Like hell! I'll have you know I worked my ass off on that cake, and I will be damned if anyone," she said, emphasizing the word and glaring at the three men and two teens in her home, "touches it before Len. This is my birthday gift to him, so I make the rules about the cake. He also gets to choose which part he wants to eat, so the rest of you can get in line behind him," she finished, getting up to put away the dry dishes. "You gentleman can just wait a few more minutes. I'm sure you'll survive."

Next to Kirk, McCoy smiled broadly. It was nice to have someone finally go to bat for him, and it was his intention since laying eyes on the thing to smash it to smithereens in a most joyous bit of childish destruction. "Thanks, Lynn. Appreciate you keeping the vultures away for a little bit."

"My pleasure, Len. Now, do your thing," she replied sweetly, handing McCoy a bird.

While McCoy went back to sizing up the cake and weighing the small fondant birds in the open palms of his hands, Pike let out a deeply unsatisfied and angry grumble of protest. His face wore a decent impression of his former partner's famous angry scowl, and he chewed away at the inside of his lip while he contemplated his options. Before he could stop himself, Chris looked at his wife and tried his last ditch resort: appealing to her mothering side. "One taste."

Lynn, in the kitchen, stopped what she was doing and dropped the bowl she was drying on the countertop. One hand on her hip, she whirled around and narrowed her eyes at her husband. She knew that tone, the one that screamed that, while he was trying to help someone else (Ethan), there was something in it for him, too. She waved one finger in the air when the pieces fell into place and said, "Nice try, my dear, but it isn't going to work. If you think you're going to trick me into letting you eat some of that cake, you are sorely mistaken, Mister. You heard what your doctor said - your cholesterol is way too high for rich food like that. You're supposed to stick with plain oatmeal and grapefruit, which I know you _haven't_ been doing."

Chris silenced the mocking snickers that came from his son, his son's best friend, and his three subordinates with a thinly veiled threat that would probably border on police brutality if performed on the job. "Oatmeal and grapefruit suck. I'm tired of them. They're boring, they have no flavor, and they're not sweet."

It was all becoming clearer now. Lynn didn't try to keep the mocking tone from her voice. "That famous Pike sweet tooth coming around to bite you in the ass, isn't it? I told you this was going to happen, Chris, but you never believed me when I said moderation was the way to go. Someone's probably regretting eating that extra bowl of ice cream every night for the past ten years, isn't he?"

"I kept myself in shape - I exercise and I try my best to keep my stress level down, though that doesn't always work," he said with a sideways glance toward Kirk and McCoy. "But I've made the effort. It's just that genetics don't like me." Pike rolled his eyes and sighed, figuring he was already sunk by the look on Lynn's face.

Lynn shook her head emphatically. "I don't care if it's unfair. Do you want to drop dead of a heart attack when you're chasing a suspect? Because for as much as you piss me off, no one else gets the pleasure of putting you out of your misery. That job is reserved for me," she joked half-heartedly.

"Love you, too, honey," Pike replied with an equally amused snort.

"Your parents are, how to say…animated," Chekov said in a mock whisper.

Ethan sputtered, choking on the water he'd retrieved from the fridge while his folks argued about cake ownership. "Try living with them for sixteen years, and then come talk to me. I think you'd change your tune."

"I was not aware I was singing," Chekov replied, confused.

"Two years, and we're still working on that," Ethan said, eyeing his friend from the corner of his gaze. He dropped his head dramatically to the table, resting his forehead against the cool, slick wood for a few short seconds. "Do you think that, maybe, one of these days, you could get the hang of English slang? I'm embarrassed for you, and I'm not you!"

"I will do my best to familiarize myself with your idioms. They are numerous, and confusing, but I am learning," Pavel said while he bounced away in his seat. Looking over at Lynn, he added with a gracious little bow of his head and a giant, satisfied grin, "But I must thank you before we eat this wonderful cake, Mrs. Pike, and for allowing us to be testers for your project. It was…wevy hard job."

Ethan dropped his head into his hands while Lynn just stared at Pavel and his absolute crap timing. "Dude!" he hissed out.

Chekov was confused. "I was not supposed to thank your mother? I thought that was the polite thing to do, in either culture."

"You are, but just not now!" the younger Pike whispered, eyes darting over to where his father sat. Trust Pavel to let the cat out of the bag, as it were, and to totally tank their chances of keeping their involvement in Operation: Mincemeat a secret.

Chris managed to kick-start his sputtering brain enough to pull together one sentence of incredulous disbelief. He peeled his jaw off the kitchen table and swiveled in his chair to shoot a scathing glare at his wife. Eyes narrowed, he stuck a finger out in front of his face before he said, "You let them have cake, too?"

Lynn, after nearly two decades of marriage, was less than impressed with her husband's death glare. It might work on the depths of stupidity that he chased around all day, but it didn't work on her. She was a mom, after all. Grabbing a nail file out of the junk drawer, she made quick work of a rough edge on her index finger. She leaned against the counter and said casually, "Of course I did. Someone had to test the flavors and the durability, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let you do it. I'd have never gotten any work done."

"But-!" he protested loudly. The argument against why two teenagers should be the quality control testers instead of a well-trained, diverse food 'critic' died on the tip of Chris' tongue with one well-placed and very prickly glare from Lynn.

"No 'buts', my dear. They're sixteen. They burn if off by breathing, which is something you can no longer do. Face it, Chris. You need to start taking better care of yourself. I would have thought that your brush with the pearly gates would have been enough, but apparently your head is thicker than I thought," Lynn replied sternly, putting away the last dish in the cupboard above her head.

In his attempt to make his prima facie case to his wife, Chris pointed one finger at the hyperactive Kirk. "Jim? I understand why that would work," Pike started. "But McCoy? He sits on his ass just as much as I do, which, according to you, is a lot."

Len, who hadn't quite abandoned the conversation in favor of playing with the cake, craned his neck around and hollered out, "All my exercise is your fault, chasing after your recruit when he won't listen to me. Keep it up, and I swear I'll un-adopt Jim so you can get out from behind your desk and train him your damned self!"

Kirk was just lining up a red bird with the top when he heard his name, being used in both a general and negative connotation. He stopped his motion, retracted his tongue back in his mouth where it belonged and straightened up. Extending both his hands out, palms up, Kirk exclaimed, "HEY! Wait a minute here!" loud enough to make Chekov jump.

Two faces, identically adorned with pig-headed expressions, snapped toward Kirk. Simultaneously, both Pike and McCoy yelled emphatically, "Shut up, Jim!"

Kirk raised one eyebrow while smirking from the left corner of his mouth. He stepped back and slid around the far side of the cake, hoping that the monstrous concoction would serve a dual purpose as a bunker if kitchen utensils started flying across the room. "Okay. Chill. I'm just gonna go back over here and play with the most awesome cake in the world, the one my Lieu is barred from eating," Kirk added as an extra jab to Pike.

"Are you itching that much to ride a desk for a week, Kirk?" Pike threatened.

Jim smiled slyly, licking his lips at the same time. "Depends on if Uhura's services are necessary. Desk duty wouldn't disappoint then. Might even find out her name one of these days."

"Yeah, I'll bet you'd 'take' desk duty with her, Jim," McCoy answered with a predictable roll of his eyes and a muttered curse. He shook his head; Kirk was fully corrupting his mind. Len dropped the yellow bird into the slingshot and lined up the projectile. "And why don't you just look on her business card? It's not like the State of Iowa would just let a social worker call herself 'Uhura' and nothing else."

"Why not? We ceased to have first names when we took our oath to uphold the law," Kirk replied.

McCoy readjusted the bird in the slingshot and straightened up to face his partner. "That's different. We're cops."

"And?" Kirk queried, tilting his head to the side.

"And what, Jim? That's how it is. It's last names, and that's it," McCoy stated rather succinctly before he yanked back the slingshot and let the bird fly.

"Don't forget about the awesome nicknames, Bones," Kirk added with all of the expert timing of an experienced class clown. As intended, the well-placed verbal jab hit right on target, and caused a tiny hitch in McCoy's release. The bird sailed wide of its intended target, instead impacting hard on the glass of the patio door behind the dining room table. It made a loud but dull thud, which strangely sounded nearly identical to the sound of a real bird flying into the partition.

"God_dammit!_," McCoy swore. "For Chrissake, kid. Stop distracting me!"

Jim scoffed loudly. "Your fail is not my fault. I_ told_ you that you were going to need to aim more to the right, jackass!" he said, elbowing past McCoy on his way up to the table. He shimmied in and parked himself right next to the cake while he motioned for a bird. "Here, get out of the way and let the master show you how it's done."

McCoy moved over to protectively shield his cake from the grabby hands of his partner while he physically shoved Jim back, stopping his partner's forward momentum with one large, open palm. He fixed the kid with a growl and said, "No way. My birthday, my cake. Back the hell off and get your own. I've suffered enough for this goddamn thing, so I sure as shit am going to enjoy it."

Kirk did a quick count of the number of profanities in McCoy's last sentence and compared that with his 'Guide to Bones' Moods' chart he kept squirreled away in the back of his head. An average of one or less curses per sentence was still within acceptable parameters to keep pushing, so Kirk did just that. Smugly, he swiped one finger through the chocolate fudge, shoved it in his mouth and said, "You missed, Bones."

McCoy's hands stopped in mid motion while he loaded up another bird for an extra shot at the bridge. "I know," he growled, at the same time doing a few mental calculations for the second shot. He cocked his head to the side just a little bit, measured the distance and let the bird go. It hit exactly where he wanted it to land, taking out the main support of the bridge. Like a slow motion domino effect, the Special K bar planks fell in a grand crash of collapsing sugar. They landed squarely on the pigs. The police hats provided no extra protection for the green menaces, and if the room's occupants closed their eyes, they could almost see the pigs exploding a puff of green smoke with the accompanying sound effects.

A raucous cheer, much like the one provided from the game, rolled like a tsunami from the teens at the table while the pigs toppled insipidly down the sides of the cake. The cake sat in ruins on the table, and McCoy looked absolutely self-righteously proud in his accomplishment. He looked at the demolished table, and then over at Kirk before he raised a trademark eyebrow. Clearing his throat dramatically he said, "You were saying about my fail, Jim?"

Ethan rolled his eyes and exchanged a long-suffering glace with Chekov. "Great. _Now_ can we eat it?"

McCoy was loath to tell the kid no.

He was, however, going to have to beat Scotty to a pulp for recording the entire thing on his damned iPhone.

For the fourth time that day, McCoy asked himself, '_Why is this my life?_'

* * *

**Next Up**: McCoy is annoyed that his sudden epiphany proves that Pike and Kirk were right all along. Sonofa_bitch_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes**: The story was supposed to end with the previous chapter, but this idea hit me a few months after I thought I'd completed the fic and begged to be written. Bones is such a fun character to write because he's almost like writing two people. On the outside, you have this cranky, sarcastic jerk who uses that to cover how wonderfully kind he is. I figured it was worth it to extend the story another four or five pages in order to show both sides. As always, thank you all for reading. Whether you've lurked or left (much loved comments), I hope you all have enjoyed it.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Trek, but I do own the giant pile of snow the city plow just left at the end of my _freshly cleared_ driveway. Jerks.

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**Chapter 5**

When he walked back in his door after the kidnapping and forced birthday party, McCoy expected to be at least one of the following: 1) Exhausted, 2) Pissed, or most probably, 3) Fired. Parties just weren't his 'thing' as his father often said, and since his teenage years, he avoided them at all costs. Jim, Chris, Lynn; hell, _everyone_ he knew were the social butterflies. He was always the odd man out, the one trying to fit in. It usually ended predictably; McCoy was the guy who always felt like a square peg stuffed into a round hole that wound up by himself or begged off early.

The awkwardness amongst peers, friends and family was his constant companion ever since he could remember when it came to gatherings. Social ability wasn't part of McCoy's DNA, and he didn't see the point in trying to force himself to do something for which he didn't have the aptitude to tackle. Too many painful experiences and embarrassing moments throughout his life shaped his positively apathetic view toward any event involving other humans, especially those where fun was supposed to be involved. McCoy conditioned himself to believe that he didn't need it, and until he met the Pike family, he was convinced he would stay that way for the rest of his life.

But it was funny how things changed, and his thirty-something birthday party was further proof, even if McCoy was dragged to it kicking and screaming (literally). He really did enjoy his day, especially when it was spent surrounded by good food and better company. A completely awesome cake topped it off, and Len walked back through the door to his cozy apartment with a smile on his face and little bounce to his step. McCoy came to the conclusion that sometimes it was good to be wrong, especially when the end results were as spectacular as his birthday. What he couldn't believe was that he was actually willing to concede that fact to Kirk and Pike that it was mission: accomplished.

Chucking his keys on the kitchen counter, Len hefted the overflowing bag of food Lynn insisted on sending home with him on the table. The dozen breadsticks, wrapped in tin foil two apiece for individual meal consumption, teetered dangerously on the lip of the bag before they toppled forward. A muttered curse escaped the sergeant's lips while he leaned down to pick them up. He set them on the table and stepped back to draw up a battle plan.

It would be criminal for him to let something as magical as Lynn's lasagna go to waste, so it was with military precision that McCoy began unpacking the bag's contents. He walked over to his refrigerator and made room, tossing a few bits of mystery food that were far past their expiration date into the garbage bag he set on the floor. With only minor amounts of swearing, he managed to fit every single one of the dozen-plus Gladware containers Lynn sent, ostensibly to keep him from starving to death, in the refrigerator. The quintessential mother hen, McCoy expected nothing less, even if he made a big show of begrudging acceptance when she gave him the food he knew he had coming.

McCoy was about to repurpose the paper bag as a fire starter for the barbecue on his deck when something at the bottom caught his eye. He furrowed his brows, reached in and plucked out a white envelope. On the front, in Pike's surprisingly neat, slanted cursive, McCoy saw 'Len' written on paper. In black ink, it was underlined twice, as if to accentuate the point home.

A sense of trepidation filled his chest for the briefest of moments before Len forced it back down. Although it was, as the Hobgoblin often said, "Illogical to feel such a deep sense of apprehension on a day that should be undoubtedly pleasant," McCoy couldn't help but wonder why Pike would bother with a card. In the same vein as parties, he didn't like cards or gifts, either. Over the years, people learned to simply not give them, and McCoy was fine with that becoming the norm. Len thought he'd gotten his wishes through the heads of the people in his little group, but apparently, one man still refused to cooperate.

Placing his index finger in the intersection made by the flap of the card's envelope, McCoy pulled the paper up. He ripped down the side and pulled out a white, standard sized card. But instead of the cutting, blatant condescension or halfhearted well wishes to which he was accustomed from his own family, McCoy was instead met with the one of the funniest cards he'd ever seen, and something only Chris would dare give. On the outside, in big, bold black and red print, it read, "Life is all about ASS. You're either: covering it, laughing it off, kicking it, kissing it, busting it, trying to get a piece of it, or behaving like one."

Well, his former partner certainly picked an appropriate and truthful card. A snort escaped McCoy's lips while he turned the card over in his hand to read the inscription the lieutenant left inside. He expected nothing less; given Pike's tastes, it wasn't going to be a profound, flowery birthday card. Chris was a lot of things, but mushy or sentimental weren't very high on the list. He was caring and open, but definitely not sappy, and the inside was just further confirmation of that fact.

There was no way a card like the one in his hands was sold by any big box store McCoy could think of. He bit his lip and smirked when he opened the card and read the inside. It was originally a blank card; knowing his former partner, Pike probably found it at some specialty shop eons ago, bought it, and tucked it away for use at the right time. But if he thought the outside was hilarious, the interior passage was ten times funnier, and completely indicative of Chris' level of comfort with his protégé. In the same distinct, neat script as was written on the envelope, "Happy fucking birthday, you cranky son of a bitch. Now quit complaining about your life and get back to work," was inked inside. Pike signed his name with a flourish on the bottom, and added Lynn's and Ethan's names to boot.

There was one more item left to address, apparently. McCoy's long fingers pulled out a much smaller envelope that was tucked inside the card. It looked like a gift card, but Len could instantly feel the weight wasn't right. He pulled the tiny flap of the envelope back and extracted a small piece of stiff paper. It was Pike's business card, emblazoned with the Iowa City PD logo and his contact information. But upon closer inspection, McCoy noticed that the lieutenant drew an arrow on the lower right hand side. It pointed to the right, which was off the edge of the card.

Flipping Chris' business card over, McCoy tossed his head back and laughed. Chris' choices for the day were the rare exceptions of enjoyment, ideas so perfect that they _had_ be used. On the back of the card, Pike's message read, "The bearer of this card is entitled to one 'Get Out of Kirk Free,' Day, redeemable with sufficient notice." Translation: Pike would work his shift with Kirk, the poster child for ADHD, for one full shift on the day of his choice. _Sweet._

Len reached around to the right back pocket of his pants and pulled out his wallet. He tucked Chris' gift behind his driver's license but in front of his police officer ID to keep it safe from harm (and to keep curious partners from finding it). McCoy flipped on the TV for some noise while he cleaned up the mess he made when he emptied the fridge, whistling as he went about the chores. He wandered into his bedroom and changed out of his jeans, instead grabbing his worn, faded pair of Batman fleece pants from the bottom drawer of his dresser. He slid them on and padded back out into the living room.

The long-standing precinct rule that Leonard McCoy hated birthdays (namely his own) was in great peril of being invalidated, and it irked the sergeant that _he_ was the guy about to stamp it null and void. With a dramatic, put-upon sigh, McCoy picked up his phone from the coffee table where it was left on his way in the door and unlocked the screen. Navigating over to the 'Messages' option, he scrolled through until he saw Kirk's name. Snorting, he quickly typed a message. '_I don't know whether I should hug you or hit you, but thank you, you annoying infant_.'

He hit the 'send' button and was about to toss the device back on the table when another thought struck him. Smirking, he quickly typed out another message. '_And tell Pike I'll take up his offer, since I know damned well the bastard is reading this over your shoulder._'

Across town, Jim's phone buzzed in his hand, the younger man staring at the screen with an expression that could only be categorized as astonished. "How the hell did he know that I'm still here?" Kirk asked. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at his boss' boss. "And what offer is he talking about, Lieu?"

"It's my birthday gift to him, and before you ask, what I gave him is none of your damned business, Kirk. Some things are best when you're left in the dark," Pike answered cryptically while he turned away from Jim to hide the smirk gracing his lips. He snagged his phone from the kitchen counter, found McCoy's name and typed what he thought was the world's best reply. Chris hit the send button, pocketed his phone and with a supremely devilish smile that made Jim take a couple of steps back in apprehension, added, "But you're going to love it when you find out."

When Len's phone beeped on the table, the sergeant read Pike's text, raised a challenging eyebrow and typed exactly three words in reply: "It's a bet."

**-FIN-**


End file.
